


but it starts to hurt

by outofcases (hockeycaptains)



Category: Clean Bandit (Band), Years & Years (Band)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Olly Alexander/Original Male Character(s), Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:31:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5172974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeycaptains/pseuds/outofcases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olly tries to gather himself, pull it together. “Oh,” he says, “nothing, really. Just that he only ever was with me because I’m a good fuck.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>While Neil is on tour, Olly runs into an ex; the encounter brings back some emotions and insecurities that Olly thought he'd long since dealt with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but it starts to hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiii new fandom!!
> 
> Thank you to Ani for dragging me here in the first place, Claudia for looking over this and being there every step of the way, Ellen for all the encouragement, and to everyone else who I made listen to me about this fic. It was a blast to write and I'm so excited to finally be sharing it :)

Olly can’t stop grinning.

There’s almost definitely glitter in his hair, and he knows he’ll never get it out, but this show was incredible. One of the best they’ve ever done, and he doesn’t say that lightly. He feels like he could fly, amped up and close to bursting with energy. Like he’s on top of the entire world. When he was younger he never dared to hope they would get this far, but it’s like every time he tries to steel himself for failure they soar even higher.

Usually, he likes to grab a shower before meeting up with people after a show, but when he sees Neil he doesn’t even think, just launches himself into his boyfriend’s arms. “You were so good,” says Neil fervently, and Olly clings tighter, “so, so good, babe, couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

“Psh,” scoffs Olly, laughing, giddy, “where else would they be?”

Neil doesn’t say anything, but the way he kisses Olly means he concedes the point. Olly forgets to be smug about it, too wrapped up in kissing back, pushing up on his toes to get some leverage. His hands are wrapped around Neil’s biceps. “God,” he says, pulling away, “you’re so fit.” Neil grins, leans in again, and Olly giggles and pushes him away. “No, no, I need to have a shower. We can continue this later.”

Neil leers, and Olly rolls his eyes, still laughing, and runs to the back of the venue, ready to wash away the sweat from the show--he hadn’t held back, tonight, hadn’t even thought about it. It was just the music and the pulse and the energy and Olly at the center of it all.

Alive, was how it felt. How it still feels.

It’s like he’s still bathed in the blue and pink light. He thinks to later, like a promise, can’t keep his smile to himself. Steps into the water, tilts his head back, and laughs into the empty room.

 

*

 

“Don’t leaveeeee,” says Olly, drawing it out to a whine. He looks up, head shifting where it’s resting on Neil’s broad chest.

Neil hums sadly, stroking Olly’s cheek so, so gently. “I wish I could just take you with me. Keep you in my pocket while I’m on tour.”

“Wish I could take you with _me_ ,” counters Olly, though it’s always going to be a moot point. “You probably wouldn’t fit into my pocket, but I’d try.”

Neil snorts out a laugh, weird and beautiful, and Olly sighs, relaxing against him again. They have an hour before Neil needs to leave for the airport, and Olly has a few hours after that before he has to head to his own flight, but right now they’re curled up in Olly’s bed and neither of them seems keen to move. It’s been a beautiful, busy week, but after today it’ll be nearly three weeks before they see each other again. Olly nuzzles just that little bit closer, trying to make the most of this while he can. Neil, for his part, really doesn’t seem to mind.

They both startle when a phone alarm goes off, and then groan in near-perfect sync. “Nooooooooooooo,” tries Olly, but he’s already shifting to get up, and Neil is, too.

Five minutes left, now. Neil smiles a sad smile. “It’s rubbish,” he says, “that we have to be apart, but I’ll call you all the time. You’ll be sick of me. Be begging to split by the end of it.”

He says this every time. It doesn’t make Olly’s insides light up any less than it used it. “Never,” he promises. “The only way we’ll break up is if you dump me yourself.” It always smarts a little, thinking about the possibility, but he isn’t scared the way he used to be.

“You’re silly,” retorts Neil. “You’re mad if you think I’d do that.”

They haven’t had this conversation in a while. Olly replies by kissing Neil hard, twisting a hand in his hair. Neil makes a muffled sound, surprised, but gets right into it. Olly remembers the start of their relationship, how his learning curve was insane and constantly left Olly reeling, and it’s nice to throw Neil off every once in a while, too.

The final alarm goes, and Neil pulls back, eyes dark. “Well,” he says, smiling, “that was…” he trails off, flush high on his cheeks.

“Something to remember me by,” quips Olly, cheeky.

“I’ll show you something to remember me by,” growls Neil playfully.

Seven minutes later, Neil is running behind schedule and Olly has a love bite the size of London on his throat. Olly is watching Neil finish packing from his perch on the bed, mostly ogling the way his back muscles flex under his thin t-shirt. “Oh,” he says, faking a moan, “fold those pants again, that’s so hot.”

Neil turns around, expression incredulous, but he rolls his eyes and laughs when he sees Olly struggling to hold back a torrent of giggles. “You’re a menace,” he says, and his tone is dripping with fondness.

Olly folds his legs, rests his chin in his hands. “Gonna miss you,” he says quietly.

Neil softens. “Me, too,” he answers, just as gentle.

Too soon they’re at the door, Neil dragging a suitcase and shouldering a carry on and Olly pressed as close as he can be. “Have fun. Crowds won’t know what hit them,” says Olly, “call me when you get in, yeah?”

“Yeah, course,” replies Neil, “and you smash it, too.”

Olly smiles. “Have a good flight.”

“You, too. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

One last tight hug and quick kiss and then Neil is leaving for real, car pulling out and disappearing around the corner.

Olly stands out on the street for another minute after he’s gone, only goes inside once the morning chill has numbed the feeling from his fingers.

 

*

 

“Afterparty!” shouts Olly, arms slung around his bandmates. He’s only barely tipsy, but he feels amazing, high off of performing.

Emre laughs. “This is the afterparty!”

“After-after party, then,” shoots back Olly, and Mikey nods, jostling them all a bit. Thing is, if Olly goes back to the hotel now, he’ll come down from the stage induced high alone in his bed, and it’s nothing he can’t handle, but...it’s also something that hurts. It’s been almost two weeks since he last saw Neil, three days since he heard his voice, and he’s been trying for years to stop being so clingy in general but he can’t help that he misses his boyfriend. His shoes are sticky after stepping in something that was likely beer, and his vest is half-plastered to his back, but he doesn’t want to go back. Not yet.

It’s only barely gone one, and it still makes Olly dizzy to think about how they’re now famous enough to show up at parties and have no one bat an eye, so they head over to some hotel or another--Olly didn’t catch the name--with a decent sized group. He can’t hear his heartbeat over all the chatter, which is how it should be.

The party is being held in a giant lounge area, and some people are dancing but most are chatting on couches or surrounding the punch bowl. There’s a photobooth that’s being used a lot - Olly would jump in there except he knows how flushed and disheveled he gets when he’s tipsy, and that’s not a good look.

Mikey and Emre disappear quickly, one to the loo and the other to grab a drink from the open bar, and Olly finds an empty loveseat, pulls out his phone and tries to check it surreptitiously.

There’s a message from Neil, and Olly is about to open it up and read it when he feels the other side of the seat dip.

“Hi,” he says, mostly out of politeness, though he’s still looking down at his phone.

“Hey,” answers the other person, sounding vaguely amused. Olly’s head snaps up. He knows that voice, he knows-- “been a while, huh?”

He shifts away almost without meaning to, feeling the arm of the seat dig into the middle of his back. “Oh,” he says, “Alex, hi.”

Alex smiles, places his drink on the table on the other end of the couch. Olly watches the condensation drip down the side and pool on the wood instead of meeting Alex’s eyes, and the moment feels so horribly familiar that he has to blink a few times to clear his head and remind himself where he is. He shivers the tiniest bit, has to actively stop himself from wrapping his arms around his middle. “Fancy meeting you here,” says Alex, still smiling that terrible charming smile. “You look good.”

“Thanks,” answers Olly, and he feels weird, thrown off. His tongue feels kind of numb in his mouth, like an out of body experience. “What’re you doing here?”

“Here like the party? One of my mates is a sound tech, worked a gig nearby and invited me along. Here talking to you? You looked lonely, thought I’d come catch up. Unless you’re too good for me, now that a few people listen to your music, or whatever.” He waves his hand around to represent _whatever_ , and Olly’s mouth twists.

He doesn’t want to fight, but, “more than a few,” he offers. “We were number one in the UK, it’s a lot more than just a few.”

Alex raises his eyebrows, condescending. “All right, all right, no need to toot your own horn, love. You’ve hit the big time, we get it.”

He feels the back of his neck heat. “I didn’t mean-”

“I’m kidding, Ollz.” The interruption smarts. It’s too familiar, makes Olly’s skin crawl. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Let’s catch up; how’ve you been, then?”

Olly tries a quick scan of the room, but doesn’t see Mikey or Emre, or anyone else he knows, for that matter. He’s cornered, for now, at least. “Um,” he says slowly, “I’ve been good, yeah.”

Alex turns to face him more closely, and Olly absolutely does not squirm under his gaze at all. The turn in his stomach is less fear and more discomfort, but Alex always made him feel tiny, especially when they were together, and it seems like that hasn’t changed much at all in the year and a half since they broke it off for good. “Heard you went and got yourself a boyfriend,” he mentions, too casual, and it feels like a trap.

“I did,” says Olly carefully.

“Look at you,” says Alex, starting to smirk. It’s a harsh look, a mean one, though it’s hidden partially by the saccharine sticky sweetness of the smile. Olly knows that expression. He’s not supposed to be afraid of it anymore. “You’ve been together a while, huh? Talked to this girl earlier who wouldn’t shut up about you. Must’ve been a groupie or something, poor thing.”

Olly swallows, knows he’s sobering up. “A year,” he says quietly, and a part of him hates himself for giving this away, but they’ve given it to everyone by now, haven’t they? Some bits of the relationship belong only to them, but not many.

Alex raises his eyebrows, begrudgingly impressed, but his tone makes a sharp turn right back to derisive. “God, how’s he put up with you for that long?”

He looks genuinely curious, smile playing at the edges of his lips like he knows it stings. A year ago, Olly would’ve flinched, but now he just makes a conscious effort not to grimace and says, “you wouldn’t know, I guess.”

“Got out of that one, didn’t I?” It’s like he expects Olly to laugh along, like they remember it the same way except for how Olly was heartbroken and Alex already had a new guy waiting in the wings for him to clear out.

“Yeah,” says Olly, because he doesn’t know what else he can say. Alex did get out of it. That’s what he wanted, and he got it; Olly got handfuls of hurt and a number one album, but maybe he didn’t smooth the cracks over quite as tightly as he thought he did, or maybe it never mattered whether he did or not. “Listen,” he continues, feeling an itch under skin, “it’s been good catching up, but I think I’m going to go.”

He starts to stand up, gets halfway through the motion when Alex says, “Olly, sit down.”

Olly freezes. It’s the same tone of voice he used to use to say _stop being unreasonable. You’re acting crazy. Nothing you’re saying makes any sense at all_. The tone that makes Olly feel like he’s overreacting. The one that kept him so quiet after the breakup, that had him thinking it was all his fault.

“You’re making a scene,” continues Alex, “please just sit down.”

He sits down, trembling the littlest bit. He’s nearly sober now, but feels drunk, woozy, off balance. “What else do you have to say to me?” he asks, bolder than he feels, “Because I’ve really got to go soon.”

“Just wanted to chat,” says Alex, back to smooth and collected like nothing happened. “You’ve gotten all...abrasive, or something, since the last time we were together. Less pleasant.”

Olly could say _what made me ever think anyone could talk to me like this, especially you_ , but he doesn’t, and maybe that’s why. “I’m not a doormat anymore,” he says, finally. “I’m in a relationship that’s good for me, for once.”

“And how long,” muses Alex, “do you think that’ll last? Before he’s up and left and you’ve got another album full of pretty songs about how you’re on your own again.”

Olly’s eyes prick, and he forces the tears down even as the flush starts creep up his chest. “You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

Alex laughs a little. “Haven’t I? It’s not like we never dated, Olly. Not like I don’t know exactly why someone would leave you.”

God, it’s like a punch to the gut. Olly looks down, feels weak for breaking eye contact but weaker when he’s holding it. “This is completely different,” he argues, and he should just get up and leave, making a scene be damned, but a tiny awful part of him wants to hear what else Alex wants to say, wants the closure he never got before. When they broke up, Alex just said he was bored, and he could find better. It stung like hell, but this...this is a reason, or at least it’s shaping up to look like one. Or maybe he just feels rooted to the spot, tiny under the onslaught of hurt.

“What,” asks Alex, “because it’s gone on so long? I mean…” he leers, and Olly shrinks back again, tries not to feel sick, “...you always were great in the sack, babe. If you’re looking for a reason someone might stay. It’s what kept me around, honestly.”

Olly almost chokes on air. “What?” He hadn’t...he didn’t think that that was what happened. That’s not how it happened, he’s sure it’s not, except here they are talking about it, and-

“You were always so desperate when we fucked,” says Alex, bluntly. “It was hot. Can’t say I wouldn’t be up for it again.”

“Oh my god,” stutters Olly, once he’s found his voice. “You’re such a prick, I’m leaving. We’re done here.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Always so dramatic,” he mutters, but Olly is standing up and only barely shaking on his feet.

He doesn’t even bother with goodbye, just storms away, finding Emre and Mikey with pathetic ease after trying and failing to through the entire conversation with Alex. They’re together, chatting with one of the light techs from the show, and normally Olly would be thrilled to jump in, but right now he just really, really wants to be gone from this place.

“Hey,” he says, “can we go? Or, I mean, you don’t have to, but I wanted to let you know that I’m going to go. I’m leaving. Yeah.” His voice sounds weird and distant in his own ears, like he’s talking into a microphone and only hearing the feedback.

Emre straightens immediately, and Mikey turns to face him as well. “Yeah,” says Emre without missing a beat, “yeah, we can go, let’s- here, c’mon.” The desperation must read all over Olly’s face. He’d be more embarrassed if his entire brain wasn’t ringing like an alarm system, telling him to get out of here before any more damage can be done.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. Mikey wraps an arm carefully around his shoulders, Emre deals with the goodbyes, and then they’re leaving and piling into a cab, en route to their hotel.

The trip is mostly silent, but Olly knows he’ll be grilled if he gives them the chance. He rests his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watches the city go by, and very carefully ignores the worried glances Emre and Mikey keep sending each other through the silence.

It’s only once they’re most of the way back to their hotel that Olly thinks to pull up the text Neil had sent. _Hi,_ it reads, _you awake?_

Olly stares at it for a long time before putting the phone down, falls asleep without answering.

 

*

 

The next day, over lunch, Olly says, “so I ran into Alex,” tries to keep it casual.

Emre stops eating. “Wanker Alex?”

“Yeah,” says Olly. Normally he’d huff a laugh at the nickname, but it isn’t really funny, is it. “He was at the afterparty at the hotel. He wanted to catch up.”

“Shit,” says Mikey, low but fervent, and Olly cracks a sad smile, nodding. Shit, indeed.

It took him three hours of tossing and turning to fall asleep last night. That’s not something he’s willing to share, but he knows they must be seeing the bags under his eyes, the dark circles that the makeup people will chide him for before they perform tonight. There’s something there, maybe a lyric, maybe a string of notes, but he doesn’t want to give in to that right now.

“What did he have to say?” asks Emre. The expression on his face clearly says that he’s expecting the worst, and he’s not wrong to.

Olly tries to gather himself, pull it together. “Oh,” he says, “nothing, really. Just that he only ever was with me because I’m a good fuck.”

His voice doesn’t crack, but Emre’s eyes narrow, and Mikey nearly drops his fork on his plate, eyebrows rising almost to his hairline with disbelief.

“He said that?”

This is the part where Olly is supposed to laugh, or roll his eyes, say _of course not_ and shrug it off, but. He shifts in his seat. “Uh,” he says, voice close to a whisper but not quite there, “yeah, he did. Whatever, though, we all knew that already.”

_You didn’t know it until he told you_ , a traitor voice whispers from the back of his mind, but he shuts it down. It was obvious, in hindsight, or maybe he’s just being cruel to himself. Regardless, Emre and Mikey must have known. Everyone must have. It couldn’t have been hard to see.

Emre shakes his head, and he looks rather incensed. “That’s fucked up,” he manages, eyes dark with anger. “He’s a piece of shit, I can’t believe he said that. That’s- are you okay?”

“Yeah,” adds Mikey, “you seem kind of upset about it.”

They’re not usually like this, Olly and his boys. It’s almost always more nip than it is gentle, and the touch of earnest concern is a bit disarming, makes Olly want to, absurdly, blush. “You knew,” he answers, helplessly. “You knew it was bad when it was happening, it’s not- it wasn’t a surprise when I talked to him.” They both look they’re about to say something, but Olly is tired, and his head is starting to ache. “Sorry, just...leave it alone for a bit. I wanted you to know in case he talks about it to someone and it gets back to us, that’s all. I’m fine.”

He has one last bite of his salad and bins the rest, mumbling about finding a bathroom as he goes so he doesn’t seem too rude. He isn’t angry, or even upset really, he’s just a swirl of emotion that he can’t seem to handle, and he doesn’t need to be put on trial for that.

In the restroom, he braces his hands against the sink, stares himself down in the mirror and tries to breathe.

Five minutes later, he’s back in the green room. One of the staffers says hello, asks how he is.

“Good, yeah, you?” he says, trying a smile, and is pleased to find that it comes rather easy. He is fine, honestly, and he’s determined to prove it. It’s not like people worrying over him would fix anything, anyway.

 

*

 

Neil misses their FaceTime date that night.

It’s not important, and it’s stupid, but Olly was looking forward to talking to him, to settling himself a bit and just listening to Neil talk. It’s how it usually goes when they’re both tired from a long day - they take turns talking, and Olly almost always drifts off at the tail end of Neil’s last story, voice lulling him to sleep. It’s not as good as being in his arms but it’s something close to it, the kind of stability he never really had before this.

He texts, _babe are u standing me up_ and it’s supposed to be light-hearted but he stares at the screen for a good while after.

Hours pass, and finally, he sends, _ok im going 2 sleep, call me tmrw? xoxo love youu._

Staring at the two texts back to back makes him feel queasy and clingy in the way he hasn’t in a long, long time. Olly gives and Neil feeds it right back; that’s how they work, and logically, Olly knows that Neil probably isn’t even looking at his phone right now, is busy with something or other, that it’s nothing personal.

Thinking about it like that just makes him feel worse.

He’s exhausted and mixed up inside, and absolutely none of that is conducive to rational thinking. He just needs some rest, he thinks, almost desperately, and he’ll be fine. The awful feeling that he can’t say anything right will dissipate, and he’ll be loads better tomorrow.

It’s never really worked like that in the past, granted, but Olly didn’t get to where he is today by being a pessimist.

Sure enough, he wakes up with a paragraph from Neil apologizing and explaining that they’d had some crazy fan encounter, someone broke into their dressing room or something, and it’d been beyond chaotic. Understandable, then, why he didn’t have time to hop onto the phone with Olly. Understandable why Olly went to sleep feeling hollow and weird.

They make up the date that night on Skype, and everything is more or less normal except for how Olly can’t stop fidgeting, just out of sight of the camera.

 

*

 

“Hey, is something wrong?” asks Emre, and Olly looks up, blinks.

“Um,” he says, a little confused, “no, why?”

He’s still feeling a little wrong-footed, but he’s more or less okay, and excited for the show tonight. “You haven’t said a single word today. It’s weird. You sure you’re okay?”

He hadn’t realized he hadn’t spoken, but the statement rings true somewhere, and it makes Olly prickle. “Yes,” he snaps, “I’m fine, quit trying to psychoanalyze me.”

“Olly,” says Emre quietly, eyes dark and a bit worried.

And okay, yes, it’s out of character for Olly to snap at anyone, but he’s tired, and he hasn’t talked to his boyfriend in days, and he doesn’t think a bit of keeping to himself is going to hurt anyone, really. “I promise,” he says, tone softening, because he knows Emre only means well, “that I’m okay. But I won’t be if you keep pestering me about it, because it’s easier if I focus on what I’m doing and not on what someone else said about me, okay?” And shit, he hadn’t meant to give any indication that he was still thinking about Alex, but Emre just nods like he’d been expecting it, like he knows.

“Sorry,” says Emre, and then he pauses, something in his face shifting lighter, “one more thing--I was talking to Mikey, and how would you feel about a new stage setup where we’re in front and you kind of, like, sing behind us, maybe dance a little bit off to the side? We’ve agreed that it’s completely unfair that we don’t get to be center stage, and that your dancing is a bit distracting, anyway- wait, hey!”

Olly, laughing helplessly, has stolen Emre’s glasses right off of his face, and is wearing them as he scampers away.

This, he thinks, is what he needed from his friends. A distraction. He’s not thinking about his phone, or about the crumpled new lyrics at the bottom of his bag, or what someone had to say about a long-ended relationship. He’s just thinking about what little he remembers from the tour they’d gotten of this radio station, and whether the door to his left is a dead end or if he’ll be able to keep running once he bursts through it, Emre close behind.

 

*

 

By the time Neil's flight arrives, Olly is a mess of nerves. He's excited, obviously--he's always excited to see Neil--but there's something that won't stop fluttering in his stomach.

At least he hasn't been recognized. That much has been a small blessing. He loves his fans, but he's a mess right now. There’s no way any picture of him could come out looking anything but vaguely suspicious, if not worse, and he's terribly aware of that fact.

He's thinking about a way to bow out of going out with the group that had planned to get drinks tonight, guilty conscience not quite strong enough to outmatch the dread he feels at having to pretend to be okay, and then he catches a glimpse of curly hair out of the corner of his eye and his heart skips a beat. It’s stupid, maybe, to still be this sick with love, but he’s stopped trying to rationalize it.

The twist of anxiety in his chest doesn't dissipate, but it gets drowned out by the sound of his own excited shout. "Neil!" he practically sings, nearly at the top of his lungs. Neil's smile, once his head has swiveled around and his eyes have locked on Olly, is so radiant it's almost hard to look at him directly.

As it is, Olly wants to always be looking at Neil directly, and once he's gotten past the little divider fence Olly throws himself into his boyfriend's arms. "God," he says, fervent, "I missed you so much." He's clinging so tightly that it makes him feel transparent, like Neil could look and see right through him to the trembling core.

"Babe," says Neil, voice low. "Baby. So good to see you." His chest is broad and his hands are warm. He's one of the best huggers on the planet, and Olly doesn't want to move from his arms.

They've got to go, though, before they hold up any more foot traffic, and Neil looks tired and worn out in that sweet, rumpled way of his. He makes exhaustion look fashionable. It's ridiculous.

"Bet you're wanting a kip right about now," says Olly as they separate. Their hands are linked between them, Neil's suitcase trailing behind him on the other side, and Neil nods, eyes sleepy.

God, but Olly missed him. "Sounds incredible, to be honest. Can I stay at yours?"

"Obviously," says Olly, and Neil laughs, eyes crinkling up at the corners. He's doing that thing where he looks at Olly like Olly is the center of his universe, and it makes a happy little shiver work its way up his spine. "You can have a shower and get some sleep and then I expect to cuddle for, like, three hours straight."

Neil hums his agreement, still smiling, and Olly very gently squeezes their interlocked hands.

He's absolutely sick with love for this boy.

 

*

 

While Neil is in the shower, Olly debates over whether to tell him about the encounter with Alex. On the one hand, it's got Olly in knots, and he doesn't usually hesitate to talk to Neil about the things that are bothering him. Over-sharer, his mum always called him, fondness in her tone, and she really isn't wrong. On the other hand, though, it really wasn't that big of a deal. Olly ran into an ex, said ex was unsurprisingly awful, and then Olly played some shows and FaceTimed Neil and got on with his life.

And anyway, if he was going to say something, he probably should've done it the next time he and Neil talked. He doesn't want Neil to think he's been keeping something from him.

It’s frightening, sometimes, the trust they put in each other, and Olly doesn’t want to break it with something so silly. Neil won’t even be back for that long, and he doesn’t want this to color their time together; it’s better when it’s sweet, even a maudlin dreamer like Olly knows that. His mind is made up. He’ll just have to ask Emre and Mikey to keep the whole situation on a low key basis--he’s all but forgotten it, anyway. Or, he’s ready to stop talking about it, at least. He should text them now, or maybe a call is better...no, he thinks, it’s not a big deal. A text is fine.

He should- the bathroom door opens, interrupting his train of thought, and Neil steps out in just a towel, tanned and perfect and beautiful. "Well," says Olly, text forgotten, mouth twitching with a smile as he gives Neil a very blatant, very ridiculous once over, "aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

"God," says Neil, laughing a little, "I promise, I will do all sorts of unspeakable things with you later, but right now I feel like I'm about to fall asleep standing up." The circles under his eyes back him up, and Olly thinks _I wouldn't ask for that when you're like this_ but maybe Neil thinks he would. Maybe Olly hasn't been as good at staying on the same wavelength as he thought.

He shifts on the bed, tries to clear his head. "Poor thing," he says, instead of something too-honest, "you're so tired, aren't you? Here, I'll grab you some pants and unpack your stuff and you can get some rest."

Neil shakes his head disbelievingly, eyes lighting up. "You're too good to me, love," he answers, and the tension drains out of his shoulders before Olly's eyes.

He hadn't planned on unpacking tonight, but the melody he's been picking out in his head all day can wait, surely. "Get some sleep," says Olly, pecking Neil sweetly on the lips, and the rest of the evening drains away into a soft blur of washing and unfolding and sneaking peeks at Neil's lax, peaceful face as he dreams.

 

*

 

There's a group dinner planned for tonight, and Olly can't, can't go.

He can't.

Or, technically, he can, but he feels like he's going to genuinely be ill, playing Alex's words in his head over and over. It's a rather fancy restaurant, a nice one, and Olly knows he's being ridiculous but it feels like the precursor to something awful and scary and terrifyingly close to an ending.

In his dream last night, Olly was onstage and about to sing Shine, mic at the ready, when Neil ran up to the side and yelled, "Olly, wait! I can't be with you anymore! I found someone else!"

Olly's heart dropped right to his feet, and that was before Alex came up to stand beside Neil, a casual arm slung around his waist. "You really never learn, do you," he said, eyes bright and terrible, and Olly flinched and stumbled backward and landed right on his bum on stage.

The entire audience was laughing at him, and Neil and Alex were too, and his bandmates were yelling "sing, Olly, sing!" and they looked furious but Olly's voice was gone, choked and wrong in his throat, and he couldn't do it.

He wakes up trembling, eyes wide as he stares up at the ceiling. Neil's palm is splayed across his chest, and he removes it gingerly to ease the tightness in his lungs.

Right, he thinks. So there's that.

He and Neil are perfectly fine and stable but it doesn't make sense that they are, does it? Olly's been running over it in his mind and it just- it doesn't make sense. They should have fallen apart by now. Neil should have found himself someone better and less needy and more available, and Olly should be alone in his room writing breakup songs and drinking wine and calling Emre or Mikey or both and telling them everything. He's supposed to be heartbroken by now. That's how it works, how it's always worked.

But the first thing Neil says when he wakes up and sees Olly is, "Hey, I love you," with a soft, sleepy smile, and Olly is helpless to do anything but return the sentiment and curl in closer.

His mind is whirling but his body is perfectly attuned to Neil, and it calms him down, helps him settle.

It was a stupid dream, he thinks. His brain was playing tricks on him, trying to get him to doubt himself, and it’s not like he’s going to let it win.

An hour later, Neil is eating toast at the dining room table, looking for all the world like he’s never belonged anywhere else, and Olly goes soft, fond. “Maya said the place we’re going to for dinner has the best pasta,” Neil mentions, off-hand, “and the vegetarian options are supposed to be amazing.”

_I don’t deserve you_ , thinks Olly, not for the first time. “Sounds amazing,” he says, instead of trying to wiggle his way out of it. Neil grins, and Olly’s shoulders relax a fraction, and then another. This feels like home: breakfast at the table and the heater humming and Neil’s bare feet on the tiled floor. They’d stuttered a bit last week, or maybe that’s all in Olly’s head, but this is cozy, familiar, more than enough to warm his insides.

Okay, he thinks. He’ll go to dinner with Neil and Maya and Grace and a couple of Neil’s other friends, and it’ll be fun, and then they’ll come back and curl up together and watch a movie, and then tomorrow he has two interviews and then nothing and he’ll get to come back home to Neil, and he won’t think about how blatant a break Neil is from his usual pattern because he’s thought that into the ground by now. No use in beating a dead horse, is there.

 

*

 

Olly hasn’t been able to stop beating a dead horse.

The dead horse, in this case, is the fact that Neil is consistently so good to Olly and Olly can’t figure out how to give as much back without feeling like he’s pushing too much.

He knows he’s being silly, but he can’t get his brain to calm down, and the thinking in circles is absolutely exhausting. In an interview today, someone asks him why Shine is the only happy song on the album if he was with Neil long enough to write at least one (why not more? she asks, why not?), and he very nearly bursts into tears right there, tired and confused and wound up.

“Well,” he manages to say, after a slightly too long pause, “I already had, like, most of the other songs in the works or finished by then, and we knew the album was going to have a pretty sad theme overall, so Shine was kind of a rebellion, if that makes sense. It was saying that you can be sad, and that’s fine, but it won’t be sad forever. Like a little glimmer of hope in a really dark album, do you know what I mean?”

His cheeks are hot, and he knows he’s blushing, but the interviewer seems thrilled with the answer, tells him how sweet it is. “And, hopefully, the next one will be even more optimistic, hm?” she asks.

He smiles, grateful that it’s a radio interview so no one can see how strained it must look. “Maybe,” he says, aiming for cheeky, and he steadfastly does not think about the songs he’s been drafting, about how they don’t show any emotional progress at all.

When he gets home from the interview, Neil all but drags him to the bedroom. “I was listening,” he says, “I heard what you said. God, you’re amazing.”

They’re kissing before Olly even has a chance to answer, which is good because he doesn’t know what he’d even say. The sex is amazing, same as it always is, but the guilt threatens to swallow him up the whole time.

 

*

 

“All right, little one?” asks Neil, reaching out. He’s been gentle and sweet all day, checking in, and it’s bordering on overwhelming. Olly’s insides feel hot and shivery, and it feels like less of a thrill and more of a fever.

Olly nods, shrinks back a little, and Neil’s movement halts. He barely even realizes he's moved until he catches the little confused furrow in Neil's brow.

It's not that he doesn't want Neil to touch him, it's just...his head's a mess, right now. Surely he should figure it out. Surely he should give himself some space to process--some space away from Neil, even, who doesn't- who wouldn't- whose head is less of a mess, at least. Who deserves Olly present once he's sorted this whole thing out.

The next night, when Neil whispers, "you look so fit, baby," Olly just shrugs it off, pretends he hadn't heard it over the thumping bass of the club.

It’s not really a conscious decision, pulling back, but it’s just so much easier than answering questions. The truth will probably come out eventually, but Olly isn’t going to give Neil another reason to look at him like he’s fragile if he has anything to say about it.

 

*

 

“I know,” says Neil, “no, I know, something is just off.”

Olly suppresses a groan, goes to roll over and then remembers he’d fallen asleep on the couch, settles for pointing his toes and shifting a little to get comfortable.

“Maya,” says Neil, and oh, he must be on the phone, “I _know_ , but he’s been distant, kind of. Olly isn’t- he’s not usually like this.”

Olly holds his breath.

This is about him, then. He...he should’ve known Neil would notice, but he didn’t think he’d been so obvious, and he’d been trying not to be distant. He hadn’t meant to be. “No, he’s been really quiet. Yeah, that’s why I started thinking something was wrong, and then...I don’t know. I can’t really tell why it feels off, but it’s just a gut feeling.”

Neil’s voice lowers then, to something closer to a whisper, and Olly can’t hear anything until, “I’m worried about him.”

It makes Olly’s heart clench tight, guilty and swollen with hurt, and he squeezes his eyes shut, turns around to face the back of the couch and pulls the threadbare blanket over his head.

Neil rings off, stroking an idle hand over Olly’s back as he passes, probably having assumed he’d been asleep the whole time.

Olly doesn’t move, and lies awake for a long time after.

 

*

 

He can't get the words from the other day out of his head. How long before Neil figures out that he deserves better? How long before Olly gets left again, the way he always is?

It’s scary, is the thing. It wasn’t before, but now everything’s all mixed up, and Olly is so, so scared of losing the best thing he’s ever had.

“Hey,” says Neil quietly.

Olly looks up, doesn’t jump at how close their faces are. Their hands are tangled loosely under the duvet, and Olly feels warm, safe, like the awkward discomfort of the afternoon is a wispy memory. The swirl in his stomach isn’t gone completely, but it’s not a priority right now. “Hi,” he replies, a whisper.

Neil links their hands together properly and nudges a knee between Olly’s legs, and it brings them closer together, nearly touching from head to toe. It’s intimate. It’s so, so intimate, and Olly wants to curl into Neil’s warmth and never, ever leave. “You’ve been quiet,” says Neil, and he runs a feather-light finger over Olly’s cheek.

Olly ducks his gaze, shrugging. “I’ve been tired,” he answers honestly. “Sorry. I missed you so much and now you’re here and I’m barely awake at all.”

It isn’t what he means, exactly, but it’s close to the feeling, and he does feel guilty for being so hard to reach. He keeps resolving to do better but he isn’t sure what better even means, really, when everything he does just seems to make things worse. It feels like he can’t say anything right, but obviously he can’t resort to not saying anything at at all.

He’s trapped in his head, so when Neil answers, “I just want to know that you’re okay,” it’s like all of his defenses crumple down at once.

I’m fine, he means to say, but the tears rush to his eyes faster than he can stop them, and then, humiliatingly, he’s crying into Neil’s chest, fists trapped awkwardly between the two of them. “Olly?” asks Neil, clearly alarmed, but Olly just tries to cry as quietly as he can, curling up to make himself small. He has plenty of practice at this part, at least. “Olly, baby, what’s wrong? What happened?” Neil is running gentle fingers up and down his back, trailing them in nonsense patterns, and it’s soothing but it doesn’t stop him trembling.

“I’m fine,” he manages to say, but his voice is all mucked up with tears and it’s barely audible under the snuffling he’s doing.

“Olly,” croons Neil, “love, please, I need to know what’s wrong. I can’t help you if I don’t know.” He sounds so, so worried. Olly squeezes his eyes shut and feels more tears rush down his cheeks, helpless turmoil wracking his body.

He’s just so _tired_ , and he’s sick of questioning every single move he makes but he can’t stop _thinking_ about it all. It’s exhausting and awful and he hates that he feels this way because he can’t get rid of the voice in his head that tells him he’s not good enough for Neil, for this career that’s taking off, for all of the people in his life that care about him. He’s nearly sobbing openly by now, getting Neil’s bare chest wet with his tears, and it’s embarrassing and awful. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’ll be a miracle if Neil can understand him with how hard he’s crying. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Neil keeps stroking his back, bringing one hand to run through his hair. “Baby,” he says, and he still sounds alarmed and concerned and worried, “please, talk to me.”

Olly wants to but he can’t, he-

Maybe when he stops crying he’ll be able to speak, but for now he’s just trying to hold himself together so he doesn’t split wide open here on this bed. He has three interviews and a show tomorrow, and he can’t afford to be anything less than excellent.

It wouldn’t be fair to the others, or to himself.

In the end, he cries for nearly thirty minutes. Neil doesn’t let him suffocate himself with a pillow, instead tugging Olly closer, wrapping him up and letting him get it out of his system. Once it’s done and he doesn’t feel like he’s about to burst, he sits back, wipes at his gritty eyes. “Sorry,” he croaks, quiet, and he feels so embarrassed it actually, physically hurts, an ache that blooms behind his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” asks Neil plainly, big dark eyes that shine in the moonlight.

Olly could tell the truth, but it would take too long, he’s sure. It would take ages to get through all of this muck, and he’s been through it before, the hurt from past relationships, the feeling disposable. Everyone knows about those bits. Everyone who’s listened to their music at all knows about Olly’s past.

He doesn’t usually regret it, but right now...what he wouldn’t give to take all of his secrets back, keep them locked up in his heart and never let them see the light of day.

“I’m so tired,” he says, instead, and Neil knows that, and it’s nothing new, and it’s no reason to weep like a homesick child, but Neil lets it slide.

“Get some rest, then, okay? Get some sleep.” He keeps running his hand through Olly’s hair, so unbearably gentle and sweet, and Olly shuts his eyes, tries to drown out the running dialogue that has this hurting so bad in the first place.

He feels Neil place a dry kiss on his temple, and he curls closer on instinct, shoulder dropping so he can tuck himself better into Neil’s side. “Sorry for freaking out,” he murmurs, eyes shut.

“Don’t apologize,” answers Neil easily. “We can talk more in the morning, it’s okay.”

We won’t, thinks Olly, because his alarm is set for 6 AM, giving him enough time to shower and get dressed before heading over to the radio station where they’ll be conducting the first interview of the day, and from there it’s go-go-go until well past midnight, later if they go to a party after, and then Olly will collapse into bed and do it all again tomorrow, and in a few weeks Neil will be leaving to go to South Africa, of all places, and he’ll be so far away that Olly wouldn’t be surprised if Neil forgot him completely.

It’s an unfair way to think, but nothing about this week has been fair, and Olly is so exhausted that it just takes another stroke or two of his hair before he’s sinking into sleep.

 

*

 

True to his prediction, the next day he barely sees Neil at all.

They manage to meet for lunch, a forty-five minute outing that barely counts in his mind, and Olly is careful to let Neil decide on the place, an apology of sorts.

Neil told him not to, but Olly isn’t the greatest at sticking to a set of rules, and he feels that he needs to make the gesture, anyway, even if he doesn’t bring it up. He’ll just...keep doing this, he thinks. Make sure Neil is happy, that he isn’t thinking about leaving.

_Unfair_ , his mind blares, because Neil hasn’t given a single indication of that aside from being hard to reach over the break, and even that is par for the course. Tour schedules are wild, so of course it’s hard to coordinate things. Of course it is.

It doesn’t make Olly feel much better, but then not many things do these days. Over lunch he talks about the interviewer’s awesome socks and his cat and the lighting in the station and the riff he wants to change during the show tonight, and by the time it’s over they’ve managed to talk about absolutely nothing of substance, thankfully. Olly isn’t sure he’d have been able to keep it together otherwise, and maybe Neil can see how fragile he is right now, because he doesn’t push, just keeps to quietly concerned glances that he probably thinks Olly doesn’t see.

Olly sees them. He just doesn’t say anything about it.

It’s easier like this, to skate by and try to keep things light, and if the ache in his chest won’t go away then that isn’t anyone’s business but his own. He maybe throws himself too easily into the set that night, emotional while he sings the way he hasn’t been in a while, but the crowd eats it up and feeds it right back, and he’s electric, thrumming, wild with it.

He’s keyed up from the second he gets off the stage, energy through the roof. “Let’s go home,” he tells Neil, dips his voice low to make sure there are no miscommunications. Neil looks a bit startled, but his expression melts into anticipation, breathlessness, and Olly thinks he gets it.

“Yeah,” he answers, “yeah, okay.”

He feels a little seasick on the car ride back, but Neil is a lovely driver, keeps a hand wide and steady on Olly’s thigh and the other on the wheel. He always bops a bit to the song that’s playing, and this is no different; it’s terribly endearing, and Olly relaxes, joining Neil in humming along.

_‘Cause baby now we got bad blood; you know it used to mad love..._

They’re smiling the both of them when the song changes, and the familiar chords of King start to play. Neil laughs, same as he always does, and squeezes Olly’s thigh gently, a quiet I’m proud of you that Olly will never, ever get used to.

And it’s fine, it’s completely fine, except Olly keeps thinking to when he wrote that song, and when he performed it not a few hours ago, and how thick and ugly it feels to think about why exactly it hurts. He doesn’t even register that he’s moving when he reaches out and turns the radio off, silence immediately drowning them and echoing in the small space.

“Hey, I was listening to that,” protests Neil, still a trace of laughter in the lines around his eyes, but when he catches Olly’s expression it dies in his throat. “Hey,” he repeats, gentler, and Olly feels stupid, suddenly, for acting out like that. When he was growing up his mum would always get compliments from her friends about raising such a sweet, mild-mannered boy. Olly didn’t shout much, didn’t fight, didn’t kick up a fuss. And sure, he’s grown into himself, but he’s still sweet, still mild-mannered when it counts. These past few days he’s felt like a different person entirely.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “Just, uh, sick of that song.”

He very, very much is not sick of that song. It’s the song that changed his life, and he’s never going to be sick of it, or regret a single thing about it. It’s still one of his favorite songs to perform live. He’s never once turned it down in the car.

He’s saved having to explain himself when they pull up to his house, thankfully, and is determined to distract Neil and, hopefully, himself, from that temporary lapse of judgment, or control, or whatever he’s calling it in his head.

He’s kissing Neil practically before they’re in the door, wrapping a hand in the thick material of his jumper and pulling him in close, more aggressive than he usually is. With the two of them it starts out playful, generally. This is biting, sharp, intentional. If Neil has room to think about anything other than Olly’s mouth, then Olly is doing something wrong. Neil moves down to start kissing at the column of his throat, and Olly pants, “bedroom,” into his ear, feels the full body shiver where they’re pressed tightly together.

They’re touching at so many points Olly’s lost track, and he thinks don’t leave me with the kind of stupid desperation that leaves him breathless for a moment. He’d gone from ‘he wouldn’t leave me’ to ‘he wouldn’t leave me, right?’ to ‘why wouldn’t he?’ in a breakneck-short amount of time, speed giving him whiplash, and everyone keeps noticing that things are wrong and it just makes it all much worse. Olly barely knows how to act natural anymore, how not to watch every word that comes out of his mouth, how not to cringe after no matter how carefully he’d constructed the sentence.

Time passes in a shuddering lurch and then Olly is sitting at the edge of the bed. _At least you’re good in the sack_ , he thinks, and then he can’t stop thinking it.

Stay, he thinks. Stay. I can do this, at least.

He slides off of the bed, sinking to his knees, and then it’s all heat, trying to push himself out of his own head. Neil’s hands are gentle at the back of his skull, the nape of his neck, curling through the hair by his ears, and when he finishes Olly just wants to cry.

When he rocks back onto his haunches, looking up, he’s breathing hard, chest heaving. “Was it good?” he asks, voice rasping, and it’s lucky he doesn’t have a show tomorrow—he hadn’t even thought of that, and that’s so wildly irresponsible and out of character for him that he has to take a second just to process.

“Always good with you,” says Neil, which isn’t really an answer, but it’ll do for now. Olly will take almost anything if it loosens the coil of hurt in his chest.

“Fuck me,” he answers, blunt, and Neil blinks. His palm is still cupping Olly’s cheek.

He settles for a small smile. “I might need a few minutes to get it back up, baby.” His hair is flopping loosely against his forehead, curling at the ends the way it does when the product has deflated out of it, or on the rare occasion when he wears it natural, and he’s so, so beautiful.

“Okay,” answers Olly, voice cracking into a whisper. “That’s okay.” Olly can wait, he can be patient, he can be good. God, he feels like he’s losing his mind, thinking like this, but if he loses Neil then he proves Alex right, and himself right, and everyone who ever thought that Olly can’t keep a good thing right. He’s scared and not being rational and he knows that, but he turns over anyway, presses his face into the sheets and tries to breathe through the weak, flickering panic in his gut.

Neil skims a hand down his spine, and the touch makes Olly shiver, goosebumps rising up at every point of contact. “Please,” he begs, but it isn’t arousal pushing him forward, just the soft dark shame that’s curling in his gut. He needs to do this. He can be good, and he can make this good for Neil, and then he can curl up in bed and sleep and hope that he wakes up feeling even just the tiniest bit less mixed up inside. Neil starts with one finger and Olly whines, high in his throat.

“Sh,” says Neil, “sh, baby, gonna give you what you need,” and Olly doesn’t have the good sense to panic properly before Neil is skimming over his hip and reaching around and grabbing Olly’s prick and— “are you not hard?” he half-gasps. “At all?” He sounds hurt, shocked, and Olly feels the blush burn hot all the way down his chest.

Oh, god.

He hadn’t- for whatever reason, he didn’t envision this being a problem, figure he’d just shut his eyes until it was over, but of course Neil is considerate enough to care about whether Olly is okay, of course he doesn’t want to hurt him. He’s proven so time and time again, and still Olly’s mind clouds up with doubt. “Um,” he says, stuttery and inexplicably frightened, pulse rabbiting in his throat. “I don’t.” He can’t find words amidst the chaos of his thoughts; it’s all more like alarm bells, sirens at full volume, a _DANGER DANGER DANGER_ warning that’s come too late.

“Olly,” says Neil, urgent now, and it’s not baby this time, is it, it’s not little one or darling or sweetheart, “why didn’t you say?” He sounds helplessly perplexed, a sharp note to his voice that he doesn’t use often, or at least that isn’t usually directed anywhere near Olly. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Olly’s eyes prick with tears, and he’s so, so sick of crying. “I don’t know,” he says, finally, instead of _I just wanted to get it over with but I don’t want you to leave_ , because that sounds mental and Neil wouldn’t understand what he means by it anyway.

They don’t fight much, Olly and Neil. It’s rare. Time apart is spent constantly connected when they can be, and time together is spent in bed, or out to lunch, or at a park, or a concert, or- it’s nice, is what he means. It’s pleasant, sweet, lovely.

The way Neil’s eyebrows are drawing together is an easy tell that he’s upset, and Olly feels his blood run cold. “No, that’s not fair, you can’t just- Olly,” he says, and it sounds like a plea and a question all wrapped up into one, “why didn’t you tell me to stop? I could’ve hurt you.”

The thing is, Olly knows. He knows it would have hurt, even with how careful Neil always is—and he’s very, very careful, same way Olly is when he’s on the other side of things—and he didn’t want it, but he felt like he was pouring out and this was the only way to stop it.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he answers, and it’s a filthy lie, mucked up in semantics. He was thinking too much, or else thinking about the wrong things.

_At least you’re good in the sack_ , echoes the voice in his head, _except you can’t even get that right, can you?_

God, but he’s really fucked it up this time, hasn’t he.

“What is with you lately?” asks Neil, frustration bleeding into his tone.

Olly shifts, finally; he was starting to feel ridiculous, arse-naked and lying on his front while Neil talked to the back of his head. He gets his hands under himself, lifts up and kicks his feet around until he’s in a sitting position, pillow covering his crotch. He doesn’t usually feel self-conscious being naked around Neil, but the flush of shame is still bright on his body, drowning out the rest.

This scene is common in the breakup fantasies Olly has been entertaining.

Neil standing over him, demanding an answer Olly can’t give, and Olly stuttering, stammering, flushing red and realizing that he wasn’t worth staying for after all, and that he’d just gotten it mixed up, that he’d gotten arrogant or confused along the way. Neil getting fed up with Olly and storming off, or kicking him out, or calling his friends and telling them how glad he is to finally be free.

He won’t try to pretend that his thoughts haven’t been rather macabre, lately. He can admit when he’s being paranoid, but Neil is still looking at him like he’s waiting for some kind of reply, and Olly’s tongue feels like it’s made of lead.

Neil gets sick of waiting, apparently, because he huffs, turns halfway so he’s facing the wall. “I’m not a mind reader,” he says finally, jaw tight, but his eyes look hurt more than they do angry. “I didn’t want to push but I’ve been worried about you, and it’s- there’s something wrong, I know you, I know I’m not making that up. Please don’t make me keep guessing.”

If Olly has to talk about it, he’s going to cry. It’s a stark realization, makes his throat try to close up. “It’s nothing,” he says, “it’s nothing, it’s nothing,” repeats the words until they start to go numb in his mouth.

“Olly-“

“Can we sleep?” He knows his shoulders must be half caved in on his frame, feels himself trembling. His eyes are screwed shut.

He hears the floorboards creak under Neil’s shifting, imagines him running an agitated hand over his face and closes his eyes tighter. “Talk to me,” he says, voice low, almost too vulnerable. It makes Olly wince a bit, hearing how raw it comes out. He can’t stop hurting people. He can’t stop making it worse.

“Please,” he says, and it’s wet with tears, “please, can we sleep?”

Neil sighs. “It won’t fix itself overnight. Whatever it is, Olly…I just want to help you. You haven’t been yourself.”

“Please,” says Olly again. He can’t explain the sadness that keeps hitting him in waves except for how it leaves him feeling frozen, unable to move, rooted to the spot. “If you’re going to leave-“ he pauses, swallows back the lump in his throat, “-then do it, but don’t make us talk about it first.”

There’s a rustle, and Olly jumps a little when he feels warm, dry hands come to cup around his knees. He tilts his eyes open carefully, almost wants to shut them again when he sees Neil looking at him carefully, eyes bright and dark. “Hey,” says Neil, very, very quietly, but with so much intent, “I’m not asking you to talk to me because I want to leave.” He looks terribly sad, like his heart’s already been broken. “I’m asking because I’m worried about you, and when you’re hurting it hurts me, too, okay? You’re scaring me.” His thumbs are rubbing gentle circles on Olly’s skin, soft pressure on the tendons next to his knees, and Olly very nearly shudders at the touch.

His brain is whirring through metaphors, some about the sharp hurt in his chest but most about those tiny points of contact, the heat that fires at his nerve endings. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he croaks, like he hasn’t talked in weeks, like he wasn’t just begging a minute ago. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, figures he owes Neil that much, and feels pinned by his gaze. “I just. God,” he says, and then it’s a small, mirthless laugh, embarrassed and blushy. “I know I’ve been terrible. I’m sorry, I’m just so tired, and I don’t know what to say without making it worse. I’m sorry.”

“Sh,” says Neil, one hand coming to cradle Olly’s hip, his whole body shifting forward until he’s settled between his parted thighs, “breathe, baby. Just breathe.” He’s still stroking gently at the points where he’s touching Olly, and it makes Olly want to shake apart. He tries to calm down anyway, to slow his breathing, and Neil nods, encourages him so sweetly. “That’s it, love, just like that. Do you want to tell me what’s got you so worked up, hm?”

And when he’s being so soft and lovely and genuine, what can Olly do but exhale shakily and start to talk?

“I ran into my ex,” he says, tear-blurry, and it comes out in a rush. He wouldn’t have said it if it hadn’t slipped out like that. He wouldn’t have had the courage. But he did it, didn’t he, and now it’s sitting out in the air, and Neil has gone completely still, and Olly is realizing that he needs to clarify right now before Neil starts jumping to the wrong conclusions. “Alex, I mean. I told you about him. Um, he wanted to talk to me about some things, and he just…made me feel like shit, I guess. And I’ve been overthinking it, and stressing about it, and- and-“

He cuts off right as Neil takes his hand off of Olly’s knee and uses it to link their fingers together, a tangible connection. “I don’t know why you didn’t tell me earlier,” he chides, but it’s so, so gentle, and Olly doesn’t flinch or tug his hand away. “Can I ask what he said?”

Olly is really, genuinely going to cry if he goes through it again right now. “Tomorrow,” he settles for, finally. It’s nearly two in the morning, now, and he’s bone-tired, feels it in every part of his body. “Just…I just want to sleep, if that’s okay.” He doesn’t know how to say _will you hold me please_ but he doesn’t know that he has to.

Neil pauses. “Okay,” he says, “you know that- you can tell me these things, right? I can’t say that I’m not angry, because obviously he said something that hurt you and I wasn’t there to stop it, and I didn’t even get the chance to work through it with you once I got back, but…I wouldn’t have been upset with you. Baby, you know that, right?” His eyes are big and pleading, and Olly can’t stop thinking about everything he messed up these past two weeks. How he didn’t trust Neil, how he didn’t feel like he was worth listening to, how mucked up it all got, how ruined in translation.

He nods shakily, eyes blurring with tears, and he can’t say anything but, “I’m sorry,” hears it break spectacularly halfway through. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t want you to think that I don’t trust you, because I do, I promise, more than anyone.”

“Then why didn’t you say something?” asks Neil, sounds torn right open.

Olly swallows hard. “I couldn’t figure out how,” he says. That’s the long and short of it, really. He couldn’t figure out how to say anything, and then he was scared to, and then it was too late to go back and try to fix it.

Neil looks like he wants to ask more questions, but Olly can feel himself drooping, must look like a wreck, and Neil must notice, because he just says, “Okay, we can talk about it more later,” and goes into the bathroom.

Olly crawls under the duvet, pulls at it until it’s rucked up under his chin and he’s more or less situated. In the darkness of the room, it’s easy to turn on his side, face the wall, and fall into a fitful sleep.

 

*

 

Olly wakes up with a too-crowded mind and a headache from how long he was holding back tears last night. Next to him, Neil is still asleep, face slack and eyelashes dark smudges against his skin. Olly pushes his hair back carefully, overtaken by a wobbly, precious sort of fondness that swells from his chest, and then sits up, swinging his legs slowly over the side of the bed.

The sunlight is weak where it trickles through the window, and Olly’s suspicions are confirmed when his phone tells him that it’s only just barely gone seven in the morning. It’s earlier than Neil wakes up, and much earlier than Olly is ever awake on a day off, but he knows he won’t be able to drift back off.

He dithers at first, washing up in the bathroom and then drinking a glass of water straight out the kitchen tap. He isn’t making much noise at all, but he keeps expecting Neil to wake up, to come to the kitchen and…Olly doesn’t know what he’d do, how they’d move on from last night, but the suspense might be killing him.

And then it’s too much, the stifling feeling of being in this house, of waiting for something that he very well knows could end badly, or complicatedly, or in tears.

When he was younger and the kids in school were giving him a hard time, Olly used to go on long bike rides, let it clear his head. He remembers the wind whipping at his face, how good it felt to pump his legs and not have to think too much about it, just let his body take him where it thought it should be, and those are some of his best memories, even when things were crap otherwise. He doesn’t have a bicycle anymore, but some fresh air seems like it would do him a world of good right about now.

He’s quiet as he laces his shoes on, tugs a shirt over his head and a sweatshirt for good measure.

“Christ,” he says, on impulse, cold hitting him like a wall as soon as he steps outside. He rubs his hands together and shoves them deep in the pocket of his hoodie, drawing his shoulders up closer to his neck. He must make quite the picture, all hunched in on himself as he walks, but there’s no one out at this hour to see him, anyway.

It’s beautifully quiet, everything soft and untouched even if it is sharp with morning chill, and it gives him a chance to sort out his thoughts without the pressure of people around him.

He doesn’t want Neil to leave--that’s the first thing, the most important. He loves Neil with his entire heart, hates that he hurt him, hates that this whole mess got so tangled that they both ended up frustrated and unhappy. It wasn’t fair to do to Neil, and...and it wasn’t fair to do to himself, either, Olly is realizing. He didn’t deserve the constant fear, or the pressing sadness, or how he was breaking his own heart.

Seeing Alex messed him up. He can admit that. He’d thought he’d left all that behind, that being with someone who was good to him would be enough to erase all of the hurt he’s been through, but it hasn’t really worked like that, and maybe it’s finally time to face his past. He has a number one album and none of the closure he’d expected to come with it.

He just- he can’t keep waiting for people to leave him. It only leads to bad things, when he expects that. It only-- he pauses, freezes in place. “Oh,” he says, startled, as another raindrop hits him, “oh my god, seriously?” He directs it to the clouds, like they can answer him, and receives a face full of water, rain pouring down so suddenly that he’s drenched in seconds, like the sky has broken open right over his head.

He doesn’t have an umbrella, his socks are soaked, and his hair must look a mess; at this point, the only thing he can do is laugh, and he does. Laughs big and bright and loud, so hard he bends at the waist, has to clutch his own stomach. “Of course,” he wheezes, feeling the hoodie start to take on water as well, getting heavy on his shoulders. At least he’d left his phone at home, he thinks--crisis avoided there.

He stands in the rain for another few seconds, perfectly still in the midst of the storm, and then hunches his shoulders even more and starts to head back, chin tipped against the wind and water.

It’s a quick walk back, brisk pace elevated by Olly’s light spirits. It’s like his worries were washed away, however momentarily, by that downpour.

He’s thinking in metaphors when walks up to the house, humming scraps of melody under his breath, but the sound dies in his throat when he walks in the door and sees Neil sitting there, looking beautiful and nervous and determined where he’s sitting between Olly’s bandmates.

“Oh,” says Olly, trying to keep his tone in the realm of light surprise, “you’re bonding!”

The three faces staring back at him are distinctly unimpressed (disbelieving, even), though the corners of Neil’s mouth are turning up despite the worry around his eyes. There’s a reason he’s Olly’s favorite.

“You realize we do know each other, right?” asks Emre, raising an eyebrows, and Olly shrugs back awkwardly. They don’t spend a lot of time together when Olly isn’t also there, is what he meant, but he figures this isn’t the best time to bring it up. When he left, Neil was asleep, and now he’s awake and Emre and Mikey are here and they’re all looking at Olly like he’s grown an extra hear.

For a moment, no one says anything, and Olly considers faking a phone call or something to escape. “Um,” he says, instead of doing that, “so this is kind of weird. What...are you doing here?”

“I woke up and you weren’t here,” says Neil slowly, slight blush on his face like he feels a bit silly, “and then you left your phone, and I, ehm, may have overreacted a bit. Maybe.”

Emre and Mikey both look rather like they’re holding back laughter. “He was panicking,” reveals Mikey, grinning, and something in Olly’s chest goes warm and wobbly. “Called us and asked us if we’d seen you. We thought you’d been kidnapped by the way he was talking.”

“Oh,” says Olly. “Well, I haven’t been. Kidnapped, I mean. I’m okay, obviously.” He cringes at himself, hates how awkward he gets when he’s put on the spot but can’t do much to change it.

“Where did you go?” asks Neil. He doesn’t look much reassured. “Baby, you’re shivering.”

Olly startles, realizes he’s dripping onto the hardwood floors. “Shoot. I am, aren’t I.”

There’s a pause where Olly mostly just stares at the ground and wants it to swallow him up or at least provide him with dry clothes, and then Neil is saying, “come here, come on,” and guiding him back to the bedroom and into the en suite. Olly manages a quick goodbye to Emre and Mikey, watches them both get ready to leave out of the corner of his eye, and then he’s in the bathroom and stripping down, getting colder by the second. “You could’ve caught your death out there,” berates Neil gently, and he sounds a mix of fond and worried. “And you could’ve told me where you were going.”

“Sorry,” answers Olly, genuine, teeth chattering, “I just went for a walk. I thought I’d be back before you woke up, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

He’s still shivering, but at least he’s not still in wet clothes. He’s naked and still damp, and it’s awkward, but at least it’s not getting worse. Or, at least it probably won’t get worse from here.

Neil turns on the shower, and soon the steam is fogging up the mirror and warming up the room. Olly rolls his shoulders, relaxes into the warmth. “Thank you,” he says, and he means it for more than just helping him run a shower.

“Of course,” answers Neil, and Olly might be projecting, but it sounds like it means more, too.

And then Neil is stripping off his own shirt, and then his joggers and his pants, and Olly maybe tenses up the tiniest bit, is still mortified about what happened the night before. Like he’s reading Olly’s mind, Neil looks up, meets his eyes. “I’m just coming in with you to help,” he says, “want to make sure the temperature isn’t a shock, and help you wash your hair if you want.”

Olly will never say no to anyone washing his hair, even now that he doesn’t have that much of it. Neil says he’s like a kitten when it happens, purring into the touch, and he isn’t really wrong, honestly. Olly loves it.

He nods and steps into the shower once the temperature is just right, and sighs with how good it feels to shake the cold from his bones. Neil steps in behind him, and it’s quiet at first while Olly stops shivering, finally fully releases the tension from his aching muscles. “I didn’t know it would rain,” he offers quietly. “Just wanted to clear my head, get some air.”

“What time was it when you left?” Neil looks a bit perplexed, furrow in his brow, and he must have woken up just after it started raining.

Olly shifts on his feet, turns away from Neil so he can wash his front and so he doesn’t have to make too much eye contact. “Around seven.”

A pause. “That’s really early. Did something wake you?”

“Just too much knocking around in my head, I guess,” answers Olly, as honestly as he can. “Couldn’t stop thinking, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again.”

Neil makes a small, agreeable sound, and he sounds much less worried, less stressed. Olly’s glad about that, really didn’t mean to make Neil worry at all. “You could’ve woken me,” he murmurs.

“You looked so peaceful,” says Olly, stupid smile breaking out over his face. He tips his chin down shyly, still feels ridiculous and sappy when it hits him how much he loves this boy. “Didn’t want to disturb you. Besides, you need your beauty sleep, don’t you? We can’t all wake up looking perfect.”

It’s a lie. It’s an awful, dirty lie. Olly is a mess in the mornings and he knows it, needs coffee and to wash his face before he can face anyone. Neil, on the other hand, is a Greek God in sleep just as he is when he’s awake, and it borders on absurd, sometimes, how handsome he is in every circumstance.

Regardless, it pulls a playful scoff out of Neil, who grabs Olly’s hips and pretends to jostle him before pulling him close. “That was a rude thing to say,” he murmurs, right into Olly’s ear, and he feels every inch of Olly’s shiver in this position.

He can’t get it up, not after the stress of last night and the disaster that that was, but he appreciates that Neil isn’t treating him as much like glass as Olly had expected him to. “Sorry,” he concedes, still smiling. “Will you still wash my hair?”

He turns in the loose circle of Neil’s arms, looking up at him pleadingly. Neil breaks in a second, smiling back. “It’s dangerous,” he says, low, “what you do to me. I’d give you the whole world if I could. Turn around, baby, I’ll wash your hair.”

Pleased, Olly turns back around. Neil hums off key as he works the shampoo into Olly’s scalp, and it’s awful, endearing, domestic, perfect. Olly wants to stay in here forever, partly to ward off the conversation that he knows is coming but mostly because this is what people say when they say that home is a person, not a place. This is warm, safe. This feels like home.

Neil digs in a bit at a spot just below Olly’s ear, and Olly nearly crumples with how good it feels. “Oh my god,” he half-moans, basically a content puddle by now, ready to sink the shower floor and sleep right here, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” says Neil, a shade too serious for the tone of the moment.

Olly hums happily and tilts his head back into Neil’s hands, and the rest of the shower is quiet, just the two of them and the pulsing water.

When they get out, Neil hops out and dries off and holds out a towel for Olly, smiling softly. It’s cozy, being wrapped in a fluffy towel, and okay, maybe the cat comparisons are valid, even if just for the way Olly leans into the touch.

They stop in the bathroom for clothes once they’re dry, and end up in the sitting room, more or less tangled together on the couch, Olly tucked into Neil’s side. “We should talk now,” says Neil, pressing a kiss to Olly’s temple, and Olly sighs, leans closer and rests his head on the space between Neil’s neck and shoulder where he fits just right.

“Yeah,” he says, because he’s done with running from it. “Did you want to know anything in particular, or should I just…”

“Wherever you want to start,” answers Neil, and Olly can feel his voice more than he can hear it, the hum in his chest.

Right, he thinks, best to begin at the beginning. “You’re the first guy I’ve been with that genuinely enjoys my company,” he says, and he’s pleased that he isn’t stammering. “And it took a lot of getting used to. I talked about it with you some at the beginning, but I never really liked to get into the details, I guess. I figured everyone knew enough from the things I wrote, and that the rest...wasn’t important, or necessary to the story. Or something. I just didn’t think people would want to hear about it.”

Neil makes a tiny, wounded sound, and Olly wishes they weren’t practically fused together already so he could get closer, reassure him somehow. But _it’s not you, it’s me_ , sits badly no matter the situation, and he can’t think of a different way to put it.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I carried that with me for a long time. It made me feel like I wasn’t worth very much, and I thought I was done with it but then I ran into Alex and some of the things he said…”

Neil tenses up a bit underneath him, but he asks, “What did he say?” and it’s soft and encouraging and exactly what Olly needed.

It’s easier than he’d expected it to be to answer, “That he was only ever in it for the sex, and that it’s just a matter of time before you leave me. That he knows what it’s like to leave me, and that it’s easy to do.” _At least you’re good in the sack_ , he remembers, and it’s a dull, awful echo.

Neil is barely breathing, entire coil of his body tight and rigid. “I don’t understand,” he says, a bit strained, “how anyone could look at you, and talk to you, and think that you could ever deserve to be treated that way.”

Olly doesn’t say _he wasn’t the only one and he wasn’t even the first one_ , but he could. He stays quiet, instead, feels small and safe where he’s tucked against Neil.

“I never,” starts Neil, a bit stuttery, “I don’t want to ever make you feel like that. Like you’re anything less than completely loved and cherished. And if I ever do, you have to tell me.” He threads his fingers through Olly’s short hair, scritching at the base of his neck. It’s a contrast to the near-desperation in his voice. It’s so sincere, so wide, wide open. “Olly, I need you to promise me that you’ll talk to me.”

It’s...a big ask, certainly, but not one that Olly isn’t prepared for. “I know,” he says, “and I’m sorry I didn’t this time, but I think it’ll be different now. Like, getting caught up in my head and not saying anything to anyone, that won’t happen again, because I know better.” He’s learned, is what he’s trying to say. The circumstances have changed.

He can’t promise to change, but he can promise to try.

“You’re worth so much more than a prick like him could even begin to appreciate,” huffs Neil, and it almost draws a laugh out of Olly, would if it wasn’t so genuine. There’s a pause, and then Neil asks, hesitant, “Is that why...last night happened?”

Olly blushes hot and fast. He’d been hoping they would just gloss over this bit, but he can maybe understand why they shouldn’t. “Yeah,” he says, and it breaks into a whisper at the end. “He said I was just a good fuck, basically, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that. I figured if I was going to be weird or distant I could be good in bed, at least.”

“ _Baby_ ,” breathes Neil, and he sounds nearly devastated. Olly shuts his eyes, half-shrugs. _It’s fine_ , he tries to protest, but Neil talks over him, “even if we never had sex again, I would still love you. Obviously. I mean, it should be obvious. You know what I’m trying to say. Hey,” he giggles, having caught the expression Olly made when Neil talked about never having sex again, “it’s romantic, quit laughing at me.”

“Sorry,” gasps Olly, not even trying to tamp down the laughter, “it’s very romantic. _Oh, baby_ ,” he mocks, putting on his best fake-sexy voice, “ _let’s be together forever and never have sex again. Oh yeah, it’ll be so hot_ \- Neil!”

He sounds so smug when he replies, “What?” and continues tickling Olly, sneaky fingers at his sides.

“I give!” begs Olly, just a few seconds in. He’s terribly ticklish, and his boyfriend is evil for taking advantage of that as often as he does. “Oh my god, stop, I give!”

Neil is laughing, too, low in his throat, and he rests his palms flat on Olly’s sides, stopping the assault. Olly sags, still breathless, and they both wait for a moment and just breathe. There’s still the ghost of a smile on Olly’s lips, and it’s so much easier to be when there isn’t all this weight pressing down on him.

“God, I hated this,” says Neil, candid, tone easing back out of the urgent shade it had taken on earlier in the conversation, “you hurting and things being weird between us.” He’s relaxing now, and Olly knows that the worst is over, feels almost strange knowing that they made it through a rough patch and that the awkwardness has more or less burnt away. There will be more to talk about later on, but for now they can put it away, stretch out into something sweeter.

“Me, too,” he admits quietly. He shifts, slings an arm around Neil’s waist and looks up at him, knows his face must be all kinds of sweet in the morning light. It’s only barely ten, still, though it feels like he’s been awake for absolutely ages. He’s tired in a way that aches quietly, in his bones and in his heart, and Neil must see it, must feel it, too. “I’m really happy we’re okay,” he adds, because relieved has the wrong connotation, “and I’m really sleepy, still.”

“We both could use some sleep, I think.” The tenderness in Neil’s eyes is the most disarming thing in the world even now, and Olly takes a second to gather himself before nodding, because that genuinely sounds like the best idea in the world.

They stumble back to the bedroom slowly, Neil ahead and Olly trailing just behind, and then they’re piling under the duvet, legs tangling, Neil’s arm secure around Olly’s waist. It’s another thing he’s been missing, the easy closeness. They’re intertwined in a way they haven’t been since Neil left for tour the last time, no expectations, no overthinking.

Olly falls asleep thinking I want this forever and for once it’s not scary, it’s just...warm.

 

*

 

He wakes up without a ball of stress in his stomach for the first time in what feels like ages, and he takes a minute to stretch out on the bed. Neil’s side is empty but still warm, and there are some quiet noises coming from the kitchen.

Olly takes his time waking the rest of the way up, luxuriating in the warm bed and the good-soft-sweet feeling of being loved. There’s all this resolution in his chest and it feels like music.

He’s sitting at the piano at the foot of the bed before he’s even made the conscious decision to do so, stretching out his fingers and humming a melody under his breath before picking out on the keys. There are snatches of lyrics floating around in his head, and he makes it halfway through writing down a verse when Neil walks in, two cups of tea in his hands. He freezes, almost comically, in the doorway once he sees what Olly is doing. “Oh, um, I can wait? Or I can go if you want, and we can talk later, or-”

“Stay,” says Olly, surprising himself with how much he means it. “I want you to stay, if you’d like.”

Neil’s eyebrows rise; this is the first time Olly has allowed him to be in the same room while Olly writes. It’s also the first time Olly has allowed _anyone_ to be in the same room, but Neil doesn’t know that. He settles onto the bed, handing one mug to Olly and keeping the other cupped in his hands.

“Thank you,” says Olly, and he means more than that, thinks he always might.

Neil’s answering smile is radiant, tender, full of light.

Olly feels something bright tug in his heart, and then he looks back down at the keyboard, at his own hands. Thinks about the past weeks and all of the different kinds of hurt he’s held in his chest like trapped birds. Writes a song for the person he’s leaving behind, and the person he is now, and the person he has yet to become. About love and pain and want and where they all intersect. Tinkers with it, spends hours at that piano while Neil sits beside him.

Has the melody stuck in his head for days after.

**Author's Note:**

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